


either the curtains go

by DatAsymptote



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, also mentions of george eliot/george henry lewes, honestly just a brotp with awkward romantic tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatAsymptote/pseuds/DatAsymptote
Summary: or i do."You never know where you might end up in the morning."a fic in which there is awkward romantic tension between George Eliot and Oscar Wilde, fabric shopping and a growing sense of envy





	

_“You never know where you might end up in the morning.”_

To wake up tangled in Oscar Wilde was probably not a rare occurrence, George Eliot reckoned. She had been in similar situations before, with landlords and publishers and god-knows-who-else.

She didn't expect for the two to end up in a fabric shop, doing nothing less scandalous than the simple act of curtain shopping.

Aesthetics seldom crossed Eliot’s mind, and always with strife. As Mary Anne Evans, she was seen as too homely to bother with being beautiful - people told her that the only thing worth cultivating, for she had such a face, was her mind. However, she had been denied far too much the opportunity of beautiful dresses and accessories. For Oscar Wilde to engage so freely in such appreciation caused a disturbing feeling in Eliot that she could only pin down as envy.

Besides, she contemplated, stroking her unfortunately nonexistent beard, manly men like her persona were not bothered with such frivolous matters such as curtain quality. To fuss over such things would not only be out of character, but unseeming.

Still, Wilde’s fascination with such things was fascinating in itself.

She observed him - Wilde studying the fabrics with a scrutinising gaze, his hands delicately running over each sheet, accounting for every error and every small nick. Like an editor, pouring over each line with utmost care.

For the briefest of moments, Eliot actually saw something _interesting_  in fabric shopping.

(Though, of course, it might be because she's curious to know the man behind all that fabric.)

When Wilde caught her staring, he tilted his head slightly and smiled.

A woman with a Victorian sense of decorum would have politely lowered their line of sight. But she was George Eliot then, and did what she thought a masculine man would do, narrow his eyes and stare more intensely.

(Even if she was being Mary Ann Evans, well, she would have done the same. There was no “Victorian sense of decorum” present in Mary Ann Evans, after all.)

And a slightly wider - if not cockier- smile came from Wilde in reply.

“I see my ability to keep people admiring has not ceased,” he said.

“Admiring?” Eliot said, startled. “Oh no, I was merely contemplating all the more pragmatic things I could be doing.”

Perhaps, on a typical day, she would be Mary Ann Evans, hidden behind the guise of George Eliot, pouring blood and soul onto paper with ink, splicing paragraphs and sprouting sentences. For some peculiar reason, however, staring at Oscar Wilde shopping was more thrilling.

“I could be out hunting,” Eliot puffed up her chest. “Shooting. Playing pool. Courting at least a dozen ladies at once. Instead I'm trapped shopping with you.”

“Oh, do cease your complaints. Don't you find this intellectually stimulating?”

“I find writing intellectually stimulating. I find good conversation intellectual stimulating. Fabric is-” Eliot gestured at the cloth, and for good reason, gave it what she thinks to be a macho punch. “- no match for my intelligent fist of literary quality.”

Wilde responded with nothing more than raised brows and a forced chuckle. “Maroon or burgundy?” he swiftly deterred the topic, displaying two red pieces of fabric.

Eliot blinked. “I can hardly tell the difference myself! You know, men like us, with our limited sense of colour, am I right, my fellow gent?”

(Man or not, she really could not distinguish between the two shades.)

“One can hardly go wrong with buying both,” Wilde declared, and headed over to the counter.

***

When Eliot finally stepped out of that fabric shop besides Wilde, it was freedom.

“I cannot believe I spent my morning on the feminine task of shopping for curtains.”

“If I may correct you, you spent your morning on the task of staring at me shopping for curtains,” Wilde turned to her, throwing in a wink. “And doubtless, I do enjoy the attention.”

Granted, Wilde was fun to observe. The way he frowned over each detail, and how he would _waltz_ around the store, pouring time and precious time in analysing fabric. The fact that he had the _liberty_  to do beautiful things irritated her in a way she struggled to articulate.

Eliot pursued her lips, pondering that odd mix of envy and appreciation she had for him.

“It seems like such a frivolous task,” she said, adjusting her hat. “Observing you, on the other hand, is a character study. How does a literary luminary, writing about weighty topics such as human nature and whatnot, bother himself with something as superficial as what goes on his _curtains_?”

“One should never doubt the importance of beauty. It’s found everywhere, you know, even on a face such as yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your face,” he cupped it, running a careful thumb against the side of her cheek. “People talk of aesthetically pleasing. Rarely does aesthetically _interesting_  make its appearance in the conversation.”

Eliot pondered a reasonable response. “You're not entirely dull to look at yourself.”

Upon thought, they were quite alike. The tendency to suffer through the slings and arrows of society’s critiques, a string of male lovers–

Or rather, in Eliot’s case, a string of embarrassing connections that never worked out emotionally.

She wondered what it would be like to be Oscar Wilde - to write under one’s true name, with no need to hide from the public eye. To be taken with as much seriousness as one wished to be taken with. To be oneself, and to battle all the criticism that came with such with a candid dignity.

And an intrusive thought of hers pondered what it would be like to be _with_  him.

His face was tauntingly close now.

It was almost _surreal_.

The concept of Wilde flirting with her seemed almost improbable. Other than _her_ George, the Henry Lewes ones, the man she lived with and took her pseudonym from, Eliot could not list a single successful dalliance.

Besides, knowing Wilde’s antics, this was most likely mockery.

George Eliot was her suave public image. Mary Ann Evans was the one with those terrible crushes. And she refused to endure any further slight on her ego or reputation – and from a fellow author, no less.

It would be utterly precarious to merge those two lives. This was no proper opportunity to ruin her cool masculine cover.

She leaned back, in attempt to give Wilde what she thought to be a “bro”-like clasp on the shoulder, though, restricted by her height, Eliot clapped him on the back instead.

“Well then, Wilde, my chap, I must bid you farewell,” she tipped her hat. “I've got errands to run, sports games to check on.”

Because she knew too well how things ended up in the morning.


End file.
